Hiram exchanges greetings with Free Jim, who afterward tips his hat to me and nods in solemn farewell. He and Abel walk off together. Uncle Hiram turns in my direction.

Dread curls in my belly, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he looks so much like my daddy, though he’s more dashing, truth be told. Thick lashes rim sharp brown eyes, and neat sideburns frame a solid jaw. His long nose would be the bane of any lady, but on him, it fits proud and strong. He wears a shiny top hat and a fine wool suit with silver buttons, and the sparkling silver chain of a hidden pocket watch loops across his left breast. His sweeping, knee-length overcoat is unbuttoned, revealing a black leather holster with white stitching slung across his hips. The revolver is partly hidden by the holster, but I can plainly see that it’s tiny, ivory-gripped, and sparkling new.

A Colt.

I’m sure of it.

It doesn’t mean anything. Lots of folks have bought Colts recently. Still, my hand creeps to my imaginary holster before I remember that I’m dressed in funeral finery, that my five-shooter lies lonely on the table.

I glance around. Everyone is clearing out, except Mrs. Smith, who lingers. I edge closer to her.

“Hello, sweet pea,” Hiram says in a slow, sleepy Milledgeville drawl.

Daddy’s endearment, coming from him, feels as false as hearing a cat bark. “Why are you here?”

His smile is just the right amount of sad. “Judge Smith wrote to me with the terrible news. I came right away to put Reuben’s affairs in order.”

Uncle Hiram doesn’t seem all that shaken by “the terrible news.” When my baby brother died, I thought the pain in my chest would never go away, even though I only knew him for a few days.

He says, “I’m here to help you put—”

“I don’t need your help.” He hasn’t bothered to visit since I was eight years old.

“I don’t think you understand. I’m your guardian now.”

I blink. “Oh.”

I’m still staring up at him when he reaches out with his fine gentleman’s hand and caresses my cheek.

The gold sense wells inside me, so startling and quick that tears spring to my eyes. I lurch away from him, swallowing hard to keep down my breakfast.

“There, there, sweet pea,” he says, as though talking to a recalcitrant horse. “We’ll get accustomed to each other in time. Everything’s all right now, I promise.”

My skin is crawling. Everything is not and never will be all right. Because my uncle is carrying a new Colt revolver, and he’s covered in gold dust.